The Sherlock Syndrome
by Deklava
Summary: Before the bombs fell, there was Moriarty. Afterward, there was Earl. Sherlock and John, struggling to survive in post-Apocalyptic America, find themselves at the mercy of a teenaged psychopath. Rated T for swearing and violence.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock stood at the window of their roadside motel room, staring out at the lake. "Something's in the air tonight, John."

"What do you mean?" John Watson wasn't in the mood for riddles that sounded like song lyrics. He had slept a total of six hours since he and Sherlock arrived in America three days before, and judging from the poor quality of the twin beds, he would be lucky if tomorrow's grand total was six and a half. Why did they have to take a case that required them to chase a fugitive hacker into the American backwoods?

Oh, right: the same reason why they did anything. Sherlock had been bored.

"Come here. Look at that cloud."

Sighing, John tossed his newspaper aside, got out of the creaking wreck that passed for a recliner, and joined him.

"Holy Christ!" he exclaimed. "What _is_ that?"

The airborne mass that Sherlock had called a cloud unfurled across the night sky, like a huge flag expanding in a lazy wind. Stars in its path sank from view and its edge extended slowly, menacingly, toward the moon.

"Got to be smoke from a forest fire," John said, although he couldn't smell anything burning. "Look at the size of it though!"

Sherlock bit his lip. John had never seen him look so uneasy. "I think I know what it is. And God help us if I'm right."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the headline in the newspaper you were reading."

Both men looked over their shoulders at the item in question. John had folded it neatly in half before discarding it, leaving the lead story's title clearly visible.

_The Reaper Cometh._

"Sherlock," John said slowly, "you don't seriously think that Reaper bloke is anything more than some closeted lunatic making empty threats."

"Closeted lunatics are a penny to the pound, John. They don't get headlines unless they're capable of doing a lot more than threatening."

"But he claims to have access to nuclear weaponry! And no one even knows what he looks like. Anyone with that kind of firepower would be more notorious than bin Laden."

"Not necessarily. Moriarty was only known to those he had business with. And look what_he_ nearly pulled off."

They remained at the window, watching the stygian darkness spread. A faint chemical odour was now detectable. The city lights still twinkled in the distance, but their glow seemed desperate, like a last stand against the final dying of all light.

"Let's check the telly," John said, fighting down a rising discomfort. "There's bound to be something on the local news."

He hurried over to the silent television set. It was too old a model to have a remote control and only three channels were accessible the first time he'd turned it on. Now there wasn't even one. Every flip of the switch brought a fuzzy, crackling screen.

"Whatever caused that cloud must be interfering with the reception." John finally shut it off and went to the kitchenette table, where his laptop sat. "I'll look online."

Feeling sweat break out on his brow as the temperature suddenly rose, Sherlock took out his mobile and sent three texts: one to Mycroft, one to Lestrade, and one to Mrs. Hudson. The latter two didn't always answer their messages immediately, but Mycroft never took more than a few seconds. Ever.

Two minutes went by. Nothing.

"What the fuck?" John exclaimed. "I can't get online. Says 'Server Not Found'."

Sherlock glanced down at the mobile. Still no response from Mycroft.

That was when –and how- he knew.

The highway lights wavered as they fought extinction. On the horizon, their city counterparts fizzled out one by one, briefly clinging to life as glowing embers before yielding to the artificial night.

Transfixed by the sight, Sherlock wasn't aware of John's presence beside him until a hand grasped his arm.

"Sherlock… Jesus… what's happening?"

"I don't know for sure. I only suspect." He tore his eyes away from the dying world and faced John. Around them, the lamps and kitchen lights blinked and dimmed. "If my suspicions are right and we want to survive this, we have to get out of here. Now."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong> Thanks to Michael Poeltl, author of the fantastic _Judas Syndrome_ series, for an enjoyable post-Apocalyptic tutorial and permission to use his characters in this fic.


	2. Chapter 2

Packing their suitcases and loading up their rental car only took minutes. The motel desk clerk stood outside the office door while they worked, but his attention was on the sky. Suddenly cars and RVs, their headlights the only break in the darkness, began pulling into the parking lot, disgorging bewildered travelers who gravitated toward each other.

"What the hell's happening?"

"Ever see anything like it?"

"Not this time of year."

"Something's affected the power grid."

"They say that Reaper nut finally did it."

John started to approach them. Sherlock called him back.

"They have no clue what's happening, John. Now let's leave before you turn into one of them."

John scowled, but retraced his steps and got into the driver's seat. "What do you mean, one of _them_? One of the human race?"

"Don't be tedious." Sherlock buckled his seat belt and glanced at the milling crowd with contempt. "When frightened people form groups, their individual identities dissolve and they become fragments of a mob mentality. It's a guaranteed way to become a zombie without dying first."

John had no answer to that. So he just drove.

* * *

><p>Those who survived would soon learn that the dead skies forecast the world's descent into hell.<p>

The shadowy persona who called himself the Grimm Reaper had been threatening world annihilation for months. It was such a clichéd proclamation that no one had paid any attention to the warnings he'd posted on his anonymously hosted website. When John's sister sent him a link to the poorly designed page last spring, he'd scolded her for wasting his time.

_I'm not a psychiatrist, Harry. This nonsense does not interest me._

John's response was so typical that when the Reaper punched the proverbial button, people died without the anticipation that breeds terror and panic. Their ignorance acted as a mercy.

Survivors were not so fortunate: the foundations of their existence vanished. Telephone and internet service disappeared, and televisions soon became something heavy to block the windows with. Everything created by Edison, Bell, Tim Berners-Lee, and the other great inventors of the past century and a half was gone in minutes, along with buildings, forests, and countless human lives. Electricity would gradually return, thanks to resilient generators, but the horrible scenes it illuminated drove many survivors to suicide or madness.

Even the sun disappeared, held prisoner by the noxious black mass that smothered its rays and substituted falling ash and burning rain. The toxic downpour contaminated lakes and rivers and poisoned the soil, forcing people to rely on stored food and water. When that ran out, they killed for more.

Driving through the artificial night during the first hours of the apocalypse, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson knew nothing of this dismal future. Therefore, they still had hope.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock and John had been traveling for less than an hour when grey ash descended from above like the aftermath of a volcano eruption. They had rolled the windows down because of the stifling heat, but the ash now made such ventilation messy and potentially dangerous.

"I don't know where we are," John said, trying not to sound desperate. They had decided to drive toward the city, to be closer to the airport when the crisis was finally averted. Lack of light and now, thanks to the ash, reduced visibility destroyed their sense of direction. John just followed the yellow line-which was rapidly disappearing beneath the build-up- and prayed that it would lead them somewhere safe.

Others were on the road too, their headlights cutting through the dusty torrents. Many more were literally _off _the road, due to erratic driving and traction problems in the ash accumulation. Injured, confused people huddled in these stranded vehicles and watched passing traffic, eyes and lips pleading for rescue. Each time John's foot applied pressure to the brake, Sherlock warned, "Don't."

John would protest. "I'm a doctor, God damn it! I can't leave wounded people-"

"You can and you will. Unless you want us to become just as bad off as they are."

He knew Sherlock was right, and hated it.

They had been driving for a few hours when a sharp glimmer in the shadows to their right caught John's eye. He slowed down and pulled over, but left the motor running.

"I see it," Sherlock said before he could speak. "It's a grow-op. I'm not surprised it would have an independent power source."

"Grow-op? How can you tell?"

"Obvious. Look closely- those are high-intensity lights, around 1000 watts if I'm not mistaken, and I rarely am. The building itself must be a barn, as a residence would have a proper driveway. In this remote location, it can't be anything but an illegal marijuana growing operation."

"Then let's move on," John said.

"What? Why?"

"Because if anyone's in there, they're probably armed, and got lots of firepower to spare. People in that type of business would kill a dozen men to protect a handful of plants."

"All the more reason to infiltrate." Sherlock reached into the back seat for a discarded T-shirt and wrapped it around his nose and mouth to avoid inhaling ashes. "I have a good idea of what lies ahead, John, and we'll need to meet it with guns."

Before John could stop him, he was out of the car and off like a greyhound, heading for probable disaster.

That meant John had to follow, and quickly.


End file.
